WRITING PLANS.

Well, after developing publishing plans, I knew I had to do things. These are highly technical things. Specialised.
   I'd have to...
   Type shit.
   Save fucking files.
   Go back and read pish.
   Fix bollocks.
   And talk to people. I chatted to my editor over Pepsi. If she is drinking Pepsi reading this, she just sprayed the effing screen. So. Is this book going ahead?
   Aye.
   How is it going to work?
   Fuck knows.
   You are doing good stuff.
   Need to drink more Pepsi here.
   You are definitely approaching this book the right way.
   Don't have a fucking clue what I am doing.
   I'll tell you my serial killer story.
   Good. Why am I doing all the talking? My throat is fucking wrecked here. Better drink more of this stuff.
   All part of my evil plan.
   Evil plan? Listen, Batman, I'm going to tell them you are my editor.
   Sound of paper scrunched next to the telephone, with muffled talk indicating the line is breaking up.
   BEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEP.
   No. She's gone. Might as well write more of this book. Fuck.